Page 73 of Rears & Vices

“Yes,” Vitaliy said, this time with a smile.

“How insulting,” Everard said. “I thought pirates only tortured those less than forthcoming.”

Vitaliy slid out from under Everard’s leg. The look on his face was strange. For a moment, Everard thought he’d changed his mind, that he would undo the knots himself.

“That was a jest,” Everard said quickly. “I didn’t mean it.”

“If I want to know something I don’t,” Vitaliy said, slowly, “I will ask.”

Everard’s heart thumped. He raised up on elbows, careful not to move. Even done in linen, the knots would fall apart at a sharp movement.

“All right. But what is it you think you know?”

Vitaliy straddled over to kneel in the wide space between Everard’s knees, and sat back on socked heels. The mosquito gauze framed him like a caped cloak, shimmering in the horizontal dawn light.

“I know you trust me,” he said.

He didn’t wait for confirmation. He put a single finger on the tip of Everard’s prick and drew it straight and upright, until Everard shivered.

“I know you want to be here. With me.”

Vitaliy dragged his finger down, back up again.

“I know you speak like an Englishman…”

He grasped firmly, broad callused palm and long fingers cool and practiced, and stroked once.

Everard gasped. “S-so do you,” he said, “when you wish it. Lieutenant-Marine.”

“But you are not one.” Vitaliy’s gaze was dark blue, flame where it was hottest. “I have known that since I first put my mouth on you.”

“Christ.” They hadn’t done that yet—not in three years—not since York. Everard wanted it more than air, and couldn’t think why he hadn’t asked for it from get-go. “Really? You did?”

Vitaliy nodded, and stroked slowly, up and down. “And I know your heart.”

“Oh, God.” Everard writhed. “Yes, you do. And I’ll tell you whatever, you know,” Everard rambled. “I’m Spanish Catalan—pressed from the docks of Barcelona at twelve—forged my citizenship papers to make officer—I’ve never known anything but the British Na⁠—”

Vitaliy leaned in quick, and kissed him, hard, on the mouth.

“I said I will ask,” he said, forehead against Everard’s, lips still touching. “Do you wish me to suck you or not?”

Everard gulped. “Please.”

“Good,” Vitaliy said. He nudged Everard’s thighs carefully wider, slid down onto his stomach. Settled in and hooked his elbows to either side of Everard’s hips, watching him the while, as if to promise, This isn’t going to end soon, oh, no.

Then he took him in, all the way down.

“Ohh, Sant Jesús. Vitya.”

Even after last night, Everard wouldn’t outlast the fading-orange dawn. He was damn well going to try. He put a hand up to push back the bed-mussed, fine-silk hair, to gather it⁠—

Crack-boom.

Vitaliy flinched badly, gagged, and, as Everard exclaimed and reached for him, levered himself upright. “What?” he gasped. His red-lipped expression was pure disbelief and shock.

Everard sat up. “God, are you all right? Was that our cannon?” he asked, idiotically, because obviously it had been. “We weren’t heading into Havana port, by chance?”

Vitaliy launched off the cot like a north-woods panther, just as silent as one; Everard shook his head to clear it, and scrabbled at his ankles, cursing the world. Thankfully, Vitaliy’s mysterious slipknots worked as intended. Vitaliy thundered out of the greatcabin in no more than a shirt, leaving the door ajar and Everard hopping into drawers.